Tuesday, January 29, 2013

Yes Cecil, A Long Story Short, Part Twenty-Seven

It was 7 a. m. and Jerome van Starke
was as fresh as his coffee. He had slept well. If he had dreamed, he
couldn't remember. He blew down over the steam rising from his cup,
and gazed out the window at the trees and shrubs bathed in a
sepia hue from the vaporous conditions. A squirrel, unconcerned,
nimbly ran along a fence, jumping the finials like a gymnast. All
colour was drained by this tenacious fog. Turning, he went over to
the bookshelf and looked at the old cassettes, cds and LPs for music
to play, something to fit his mood. His emotional state honed in on
three cassettes by Pierre Flynn like a dry brush to an ink wash in a
Chinese bowl. Choosing the singer-songwriter's Jardins de Babylon,
he shook the tape in its case, savouring the plastic sound which was
as much a memory as the music itself. Placing the tape in his
machine, he pressed down on the aged button and listened as the rich
baritone voice carried him away with Savoir aimer.

One of his songs referred to the
world as “le monde de bascule.” He couldn't remember if it was on
this album, but he always liked the phrase. It would make a good
title for one of his paintings. Perhaps the one he was contemplating
of Sappho and Alcaeus.

Imagining Thérèse walking the
streets of Edinburgh filled him with a sense of calm. She could take
care of herself.

He heard the phone ring. By the time he
got halfway there, it had stopped. One ring. A common occurrence of
late. He had little use for phones, but he felt his need expanding
due to Thérèse and her leave taking. Perhaps he should give up his
resistance to technology and join the fast moving mob with their
devices and desires. As he stood looking down at the mute plastic
sphinx, its old fashioned twisted plastic cord hanging off the table
like a strand of DNA, he could almost feel the $2,000 cheque in his
wallet swelling with the pulse of digital currents. He was holding
onto the cheque until he cleared it with his conscience. For now, his
portrait commission was a mystery. He would wait for the morning's
revelations to unfold before moving back or forward, left or right.

*

When
Duncan had dropped Amelia off at the small florist business in
Westmount for 9 a.m., a business that wanted professional web page
translation work performed, there had been a subdued feeling in the
air. The traffic had been minimal. The pedestrians few. He felt he
had been turning the page on a rather peculiar day.

At the shop,
Julie informed him there was a message left on the answering machine
from his friend Yves Boisclair, the former bass player with The
Splices—the one who had had
the van, the connections and the garage to rehearse—who now ran a
shop selling old LPs and collectibles. The message related that a
batch of albums had come in, some Dvorak with Kubelik, works with Tamas Vasary and some old
Angels featuring Itzhak Perlman, items Yves knew Duncan was looking for. The
message ended with “vien t'en donc, mon tabarnak!” It was a
mutual light-hearted relationship. Duncan would inform Yves of
anything interesting in his latest book purchases, certain authors
Yves collected, certain editions he was looking for and Duncan would
often end his messages to Yves with “au plus crisse!”

He would
try to swing by Yves's place after dropping off the twines and ropes
to Mr. Wing. Already the day was beginning to become one of those
pages that fold out to reveal illustrative material within.

Tchaikovsky's
violin concerto played by Kyung Wha Chung, with Charles Dutoit
conducting the MSO commanded his speakers as he drove towards
Chinatown. It was Yves who told him the story of one of the musicians
of the Montreal Symphony back in the 1980s being a perfect mimic of
Charles Dutoit, providing comic relief for the other musicians in
the orchestra. He thought there must be a mimic in every business
with over thirty employees. He tried not to think of the ancient orchestra politics as he listened to the music.

Moving
his head from side to side to the sinuous lyricism, he felt he was
outlining a figure eight infinity.

At
the corner of St. Antoine and St. Pierre, he waited at a red light
while memories rose slowly like the melancholy middle movement of the
violin concerto. The towering hotels, the sprawling convention
centre, the stylish Caisse de dépôt et de placement du
Québec, and all the
redevelopment of boutique hotels and condos still had the feel of a
virtual rendering. Everything was so clean, neat and modern. Having
lived through the undeveloped and lean decades of the eighties and
nineties, it was still a revelation to behold. He thought
nostalgically of the little shops, the corner tobacconist, the
sandwich shop, the shoe and jewelry shops, and the old Tally Ho
bookshop with the veritably unmovable heavy-set cigar smoking
employee, who looked like he should be working at the horse track
taking bets, who chewed on his stogie which bookmarked every page of
every cheap paperback and pulp magazine with the aroma of astringent cigar smoke. The good old days. He started to feel like his Father. The
light turned green and he drove on passing what used to be old
restaurants, import businesses, Russell's Books, the Montreal Star
and Gazette buildings, the old fire hall and the pub where the
journalists would hang out. All gone but for memory. Stopping at
another red light at the corner of St. Urbain, he looked ahead at the
remnant block of crumbling early 20th
century three story buildings, a row of nostalgia, where Steve's
Music shop and Simon's
camera shop still held dominion over time. The future had yet to
level that block and throw up a forty floor hotel tower. He could
still drop by Steve's
and check out the guitars and feel he was that 16 year old rock star
wannabe back in 1974. The same old creaky uneven floors, the same
cramped space with every instrument and accessory, and possibly the
same employees living in a time warp.

The car
behind him honked. The light had turned catching him day-dreaming. He
took the left turn on St. Urbain, and as he approached Viger, he
looked up at the Holiday Inn lost in the fog—a building inspired
by classic Chinese architecture—on a site where he remembered a few
low buildings and parking lots. Montreal, he thought, must have so
very many hotel rooms. He parked the car on Viger and with a shopping
bag in each hand, made his way towards Mr. Wing's business, the
string handles digging into his skin. The receptionist informed
Duncan that Mr. Wing was not in the office at the moment, so he left
his shopping bags with the young woman who he felt smiled almost
sadly, as if she knew all about his slipping business and Mr. Wing's
continued support, even though such supplies could be had much
cheaper. Duncan smiled and thanked her, a tinge of self-consciousness
overcoming him, feeling like the poor relative. He had included a
slim, soft cover book on chess which he thought Mr. Wing would find
of interest. Duncan knew he had a large collection of books on the
game. If he already had a book that Duncan offered, he never let him know. Always a
handwritten note of thanks with the cheque in an envelope addressed
by hand.

At the
corner of La Gauchtière and St. Urbain, waiting to cross, he stood gazing up at a
corner building. He remembered when Yiyin had taken him up the stairs
to the art supplies store. On the first landing an open door had
revealed a windowless room with numerous elderly Chinese playing
Mahjong. It was a vivid memory. The aged players nosily mixing the
tiles and talking before turning and silently looking at the young
Caucasian man and young Chinese woman staring at them from the
shadows. The mixing of the tiles and the talking had resumed once
they moved on to the art store, no doubt spiced with comments on the
unusual visitation: 'What was the world coming to?' 'In my day,
unheard of.' The year must have been 1978. Duncan still had the
bamboo holders, inks, and brushes they had bought that day, though he
imagined the ink must have hardened in the blue and white porcelain
container by now.

He
decided to continue along La Gauchetière enjoying the colourful
window displays and the signage. Many new ventures with some old ones
here and there. At the corner of Clark, he stood looking across at
the modern corner building where the Tean Hong Café used to be, the
restaurant where they had had many a dimsum and seemingly endless
cups of green tea. It had burnt down long ago and this new structure
had risen. It was as if the café had never existed. He still had the
plastic chopsticks with the restaurant name though. Souvenirs from
the past.

“Excuse
me sir,” a voice said, “are you looking for a certain shop?”

Duncan
turned to see his questioner, a pleasant young woman probably the age
of Yiyin when they were together. “Oh, thank you, no,” he
managed haltingly, “I'm just looking . . for the past.”

The
young woman nodded thoughtfully before walking away into the foggy
morning, the short melodramatic scene imperceptibly fading with every
step.

Chumley's Rest

On Books

Henry James Quotes

The only success worth one's powder was success in the line of one's idiosyncrasy. Consistency was in itself distinction, and what was talent but the art of being completely whatever it was that one happened to be? One's things were characteristic or were nothing.

-The Next Time (Story originally published in The Yellow Book; issued in his collection Embarrassments, 1896.)

"We know too much about people in these days; we hear too much. Our ears, our minds, our mouths, are stuffed with personalities. Don't mind anything that anyone tells you about anyone else. Judge everyone and everything for yourself." (R. Touchett)